Tarnished Gold
by jab279
Summary: Someone, or something, pulls the strings of a Grail war at the heart of London. Friend and foe answer the call, but find that the clear-cut lines of the past have faded to a muddy grey. Mordred is summoned as the Saber, but what seems like a simple fight is plagued with questions. Why did the Grail choose her? Can she trust an enemy Servant? And most importantly: who is her master?
1. Chapter 1

A man with golden hair walked through the dark streets of London.

He carried nothing but an air of providence, as if a withering aura extended far beyond his slim figure. A shopkeeper watched him, flicking the light of her store off until he passed.

The man cocked his head as if he was listening to something, then set off at an increased pace. His fingers balled into fists, revealing a red glyph shining with dull radiance on the back of his hand. He reached the crest of a hill and his breath caught in his throat.

It was a city of three faces.

The first face was one of brick and mortar. Buildings of sweeping windows and sculpted motifs rested in their foundations, carving the city in neat blocks of imposing facades. Wrought iron fences ringed the sparse greenery that grew in the temperate air.

He passed by a neon sign that lit the red snake-slit pupils of his eyes, and saw the second face of the city. It lay over the stone buildings in a tangle of telephone lines and in the wafer-thin screens that lined the streets; it was of technology, of progress.

The third face was hidden in dark alleyways, secret basements, and forgotten magic.

He entered the darkness of a litter-strewn alley and held up a hand, waving away the stench of rotting food and cigarette ashes. The alleyway tapered to a point, then widened into a larger courtyard tucked away by the clashing vistas of apartment buildings. Dim light washed over stone walls covered in a menagerie of aged flyers, emanating from a single light perched over a door of corrugated steel.

A circle of blood-red runes was inscribed on the cracked cement ground.

The corner of the man's mouth tugged upwards. He raised his hand, runes glowing brighter, and spoke words that rang through the air with a musical radiance.

 _With my voice, I call to the first._

 _Of iron, hardened in the forge. Of blood, spilt through conduct._

 _The keystone on which the world rests sits the great contractor._

 _Let my enemies know the fear of death._

 _Let the path to the kingdom not be mine, the three-forked road abandoned._

 _For I reject that, and take the middle way._

 _Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill._

 _For each time it is filled, destroy it, and start anew._

 _Set._

The circle's runes glowed, bathing his face with red light. His upturned lips turned into a grimace.

 _Let your body rest upon mine. Let my fate create your sword._

 _If you heed the Grail's call, you will obey my mind, and my reason._

In a space beyond space, where time was meaningless, the mechanisms of a long-dormant spell awoke.

 _For that cause, I make my oath._

 _I will strive to be all the good in the world._

 _I will bear all the evil._

The man's fingers convulsed in a dance of pain. He braced his outstretched arm with his other and ground out the final words through gritted teeth.

 _Let the blade of red, keeper of the heavens, come forth and slay my enemies in a righteous conquest._

 _Let the betrayer come forth and keep her oath._

Mists poured from the circle, obscuring the courtyard and rising into the night. He waited, breath held, straining his eyes to see past the haze.

As the mists receded, the outline of a figure slowly faded in.

He smiled.

* * *

 **Mordred's first conscious thought was:** ** _wait, I died?_**

A summoning circle surrounded her, pulsing with energy. It flashed a dull red and she felt the bond that anchored her spirit to the material world solidify.

Thousands of questions screamed in her mind to be answered, but fell silent as she looked around with wide eyes. Towering walls of impossibly straight stone surrounded her. Above lay a sky devoid of stars, replaced by the gradient light of some massive, hidden fire. Mordred wondered if this was heaven.

Then she saw the man standing at the edge of the circle. He was smiling, red eyes boring into her under a noble brow. Dressed in a strange black half-cloak, he stood ramrod straight against the billowing wind of the ritual.

 _Can he see me?_ It took her a moment to realize that she had a body.

The circle pulsed again and she felt the heaviness of movement that only came with a physical body. She rolled her neck, marveling at the power and ease of her movement. She was younger; blonde hair still long, hands unscarred, armor polished bright. It was her before the war, not like the diminished shell that she had died as.

Mordred would've preferred her corpse with the spear still stuck in it.

"Your name?"

She looked up, seeing it was the man that had spoken. He was at the edge of the circle now. The faint glow of Command Seals lit the back of his hand.

"Mordred Pendragon. I'm the Saber-class Servant," she said. "You're my Master?"

As she said her name, the man's eyes sharpened and his hands balled into fists.

"Are you?" she said.

He nodded.

"What's yours?"

He was silent.

"I am heir to Camelot. You will answer me."

He shook his head. "Is the ritual complete?"

Mordred's eyebrow quirked up, and she fought down the urge to make him tell her.

 _It would be so easy. Modern mages have so little power compared to a Servant, and no one is around at…_ Her train of thought derailed. _How do I know what a modern mage is capable of?_

Then she felt it. In the back of her mind lay a knot of knowledge that the currents of her thoughts washed around like a stone in a riverbed. She sent a probing thought towards it, keeping a mental image of her surroundings firmly at the fore of her mind. The knot loosened and information flowed from it.

She was in London, and the year was 2032. The towering slabs of stone were buildings; the great fire in the sky was the runoff of the millions of electric lights that lit the city. Knowledge of the modern world seamlessly integrated into her psyche, only alien in their lack of acquisition. She knew how to drive a car, but could not remember how or when she had learned.

"Let's go," the man said. "We have dawdled long enough."

He turned away and started walking.

"Wait," she said.

He looked back, eyes boring into her. He gestured for her to follow.

 _This one has an ego. He thinks he's better than me._ "There are things I want to know first. About the war, and about you."

He swallowed. "There is no time," he said.

"Then when will there be? I want answers now," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"And what if I think you don't deserve them?" he said. "You're my Servant. You're a tool."

Mordred laughed. "That would be unfortunate if you thought that," she said, pouring as much vitriol as she could muster into her voice. "Because then you'd have to use a Command Seal and drag me the whole way, kicking and screaming."

His answer was silence, brow furrowed, and she saw the hints of a vast internal conflict playing behind his impassive face.

 _The way his eyes keep flicking to the space behind his shoulders… it's almost like he is expecting something to be there. He isn't being followed and there's no familiars on him, so it's most likely some piece of thaumaturgy._ She pressed the Grail-knot for more information. _Wait, how is he planning on threatening me with magic? Nothing a modern mage can do will come close to hurting a Heroic Spirit. Either he's bluffing or stupid._

She hid a slight smile. "What's it going to be?"

He sighed. "You get three questions."

Mordred pursed her lips. _Even at a disadvantage he still refuses to give ground. He's tenacious, I'll give him that._

"Ok, fine. What's your name?" she said.

He was silent. After a long pause, he said, "Arthur. Call me Arthur."

"That's still a common name nowadays? Figures. Ok, _Arthur_ , where are we staying for the war?" she said, letting the tension bleed out of her voice.

Arthur's fists unclenched and he let out a tiny breath. His red eyes still looked at her with a cold indifference.

 _Go on, play your game. It's not like believed that was your real name for a second._

"We can talk about that later," he said.

"Why can't we talk about it now?"

"Because I haven't planned that far ahead."

Mordred let out a long breath. "Fantastic." She opened her mouth to speak again but froze. "Do you sense that?"

He nodded, and tried to hide an apprehensive gulp.

Clarent materialized on her hip, sheathed, the glyphs of madness etched on it glowing softly in the night. She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

 _The first battle of the Holy Grail War. I can't say I'm not excited, although I don't know if the city can handle seven of us._

"What do I do?" he said.

She drew steel, handling Clarent as easily as a willow branch.

"Run and hide, human."

* * *

In choosing a place to fight, Mordred preferred a spot she wouldn't mind dying in.

A small square of cracked cement, surrounded by the withered faces of abandoned buildings. Tufts of grass crowded around a flooded section of the road. _Perfect._ She planted a boot in the grimy water and turned to the empty road.

One by one the streetlights flickered, moving slowly down the street toward her. Although it was a relatively warm night, her breath misted around her face.

 _Why even reveal your presence if you're going to waste my time getting here?_ She decided that the enemy Servant must not be from Camelot. _I guess dueling etiquette died with my country._

Mordred quickly checked herself for any damning evidence. Her armor vaguely identified the time period she was from. Clarent was fine, as it appeared as a simple longsword, unless she called its true name and someone was smart enough to attribute it to her legend. That left her face, but the thought of fighting masked churned her stomach. She left her helm unsummoned.

A worn tarp fluttered in the dead air, rips in its fabric stretching like lopsided smiles. She stared back, waiting, tapping a finger on her gauntlet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

She took a deep breath to calm the weakness of her hands and turned towards the empty street. "You kept me waiting."

The Servant materialized at the other end of the square, blue particles falling into the shape of a man. He was silent, staring at her from under a wide-brimmed hat. Wooden grips of revolvers shined on his hips.

She raised an eyebrow. He appeared to be wearing some type of outdated formal attire. _Legendary figures from all ages can be summoned into the war_ , she reminded herself. _But apparently a guy with two guns is good enough._

"You didn't bring your Master?" she said. "That's good. Don't want things to get... messy."

He nodded.

 _Right into it then. No preamble, no introductions._

His fingers drifted lazily over the worn leather of his holsters. _Gunslinger._ That's what the Grail-knot called him. Mordred spread her feet wide and assumed the ever-shifting guard of an Arthurian knight. Her armor gleamed in the muted electric light, prisms of dull red shifting on the metal.

 _Here we go._

He grinned, and his right gun snapped up. The first two bullets came at her head, trailing gunsmoke and fire.

Reflex took over as she pivoted left and stepped forward. Clarent lashed out and caught them from the air, ringing like a bell from the impact.

"Well, shit," he said, his voice a slow drawl. "I was hoping this would be easy."

"You'll be disappointed then. I'm looking for a challenge," she said, cocking her head to the side. "You're the Archer then?"

He tipped his hat. "At your service."

She almost didn't see Archer's other hand flash down to his second gun.

 _He's fast._

Mordred barely got Clarent between her and the bullets and caught them on the flat of the blade. Her shoulder bucked backwards, bracing Clarent as she deflected them down. The cement under her, soft by comparison, shredded to dust.

She hid a sigh of relief. _At least I'm not hopelessly outclassed in speed._

Archer whistled a tune to himself, hands a blur of fingers and steel as he reloaded his guns.

Loose threads of strategy began to weave together in her mind. She knew she had a disadvantage at range, but besides _get in close and hit him with my sword_ , all her other options came at a steep cost.

They circled each other, probing with eyes for precious information. Who you are, or rather, who your enemies _thought_ you were was critical. There was no doubt in her mind that Archer was compiling information about her with his Master through their telepathic link. _If only mine was actually useful_.

The only thing she knew was that the six-shooting guns Archer carried were not up-to-date with modern firearms. That meant they were part of his legend, and much more dangerous than they appeared.

 _If range isn't my friend in this fight, then I'll just have to get close and outlast him._ She eyed his guns. _If they obey the normal laws of ammo consumption, that's twelve rounds. I can block that._

She ran towards him; feet blurring on the cement, sword low. Clarent swung up, seeking flesh, but found only air as Archer rolled to the side. She deflected a shot and struck again. He somehow caught her sword on the handle of his gun. She pushed in close, metal sparking on metal, faces inches away from each other.

He raised an eyebrow, pushing on her sword, and the blade scissored away from his neck.

"Whoa there, missy," he said.

She felt his hot breath on her face, and she noticed a tiny scar that ran across the edge of his mouth. _He could use some more._ She pushed back.

"Don't get too ahead of yourself." His eyes flicked down.

 _The second gun._

There was a flash of light under her, then shrieking, gut-wrenching pain bloomed in her left foot. She couldn't inspect the wound, but the bullet had pierced her armored boots and left shards of metal in the soft flesh of her foot.

She grit her teeth and hit him with the pommel of her sword. Flecks of blood landed on her face. He fell to one knee and shot her again, bullet shattering on her left pauldron. Distant warning bells of pain blared in her mind, but she shut them off with practiced ease.

Mordred sidestepped a third shot, wincing as her foot clanked on the stones, and moved to run him through. She found out the hard way that her shoulder was dislocated, and her stab turned into a drunken lunge.

Archer backed up and sank two more shots into her chest. They shattered on her breastplate and she staggered back into the foot-deep water, sword up. _That's five._ A sixth shot got past her guard and whizzed past her head, taking a few strands of hair with it.

 _Half done. If I ignore the pain I can keep going for awhile longer. Just six more shots and then I can-_ She leaped forward, seeing Archer reach down into a leather satchel and pull out a fistful of bullets. She ran at him, metal boots digging into the soft concrete, sword raised. The cylinder of his gun flipped open, dropping hot shells into the muddy water. The water steamed at his feet.

 _All or nothing._

Mordred reached him on her bad foot, skewing her strike's trajectory to the side and sending it at his shoulder. He stumbled back, eyes wide, firing an underhand shot that went wide. She stepped forward and slashed at his neck.

Something moved in the corner of her eye. She turned to look, just in time to see the gem before it hit her and detonated. A blast of freezing mist exploded out of the crystal, flash-freezing the armor plates of her shoulder together into one solid block of ice. She sank to her knees, holding Clarent for support.

 _An ice spell contained in a gem?_ She flexed her arm and the thin layer of ice grated then cracked against metal. _It's not strong. Barely enough to hold me, which means that it wasn't another Servant. A modern mage did this._

"Thought you said you didn't bring your Master," she said.

"I lied," he said, finishing reloading. He holstered his guns.

 _I'm a moron._ "Are they gonna keep hiding like a coward?" _This is just a damn proxy war after all._

He looked off into the darkened eaves of an abandoned building. "Probably."

She snorted. _All or nothing, right?_

"I think it's time we talked," he said, walking toward her.

 _Well, here goes my honor. Mom, forgive me._

"Now I'm willing to cut you a deal and-"

She threw Clarent at him and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

Mordred ran down a cracked cement path, the echoes of Archer's gunshots ringing in her ears.

The roads and sidewalks were empty, halogen streetlights casting the shadows of neon signs and brooding trees. She turned right and barreled through an intersection, green lights flicking red to vacant lanes.

 _Cars. I have to watch out for cars._ The Grail-knot presented her with images of a hundred different kinds, each a unique design. _Whatever they are._

She risked a look behind her. Nothing. Suspecting a trap, her boots sparked as she skidded to a halt, then bolted left into a side alley. She slammed herself against the back wall. The corner of her mouth tugged up. The sky was still dark, so the alley remained blanketed in a deep shadow. If she played her cards right, a surprise attack would leave her more than enough time to get in, kill his Master, and get out. She heaved in another breath and held it, listening to the staccato dance of her heart, and started counting.

 _One._ She re-summoned Clarent. Shimmering as the sword dropped into her hands, its sheen reflected the pale light of the streets.

 _Two._ Her armor scraped against the wall as her muscles tensed.

 _Three._ Mordred leapt back onto the street, sword raised, armored skirt trailing behind her, pennants streaming in the night air. She let out a raw-throated yell, charging forward at… nothing.

She froze, scanning the empty shops and trimmed bushes of the street. Nothing. Cocking her head, she listened past the low hum of the city's ambience. Nothing. She was alone.

 _Did he give up the chase? Why? He's already committed time and mana to fighting me. Unless he has an ulterior motive, it seems like a waste._ Barring the Assassin-class, Servants were a powerful beacon of mana, giving off so much energy that it physically affected local leylines. She had sensed Archer easily, pinning his location to the empty square from half a mile away, but now he was gone - as if the Grail had dispelled him as easily as it had summoned him.

She had expected him to rely on the heat of the moment; that her haste would blind her, and she would panic like a conscript in a rout.

 _Something more important must have interfered._ She knew what that meant. Diving into her magical perceptions, she looked up to the starless sky and saw the soft blues of leylines light the sky. The Grail-knot told her that she was close to a large confluence of them, a nexus that rested farther into the city near the river Thames.

Arthur's aura brushed against her senses, a dull radiance compared to the dim candlelights of the other sleeping humans. Her annoying little Master had wandered off and probably found shelter in one of the deserted buildings, which was probably for the best as she didn't trust or respect him enough to let him interfere.

Something caught her attention. Across the street a weathered storm drain shined with the faintest glimmer of mana. Tightening her grip on Clarent, she padded closer on cautious feet. The scent of wet leaves grew stronger as she approached, mixing with a strange acrid stench.

She leaned down and scraped at the drain with an armored finger. Half-dried sludge, crusting the battered iron grate of the drain, clung to her finger. _Some type of vile future liquid. Waste, no doubt._ A small spark winked into existence, leapt from the sludge onto her armor, then vanished. She slowly brought it to her nose, careful to not let it touch any other part of her, and smelled it.

The fumes stung her nose and brought tears to her eyes. Oil, the Grail-knot supplied.

She coughed and flicked the oil off her finger. _Magical oil. What's that doing here? The Grail tells me it's a lubricant for modern machines. That's not magical at all, unless it means that a magical being created it… like a Servant._

 _Fuck._

She turned on her heel, heading towards the strongest human aura nearby. _I better find Arthur before he gets himself killed._

* * *

 **2 days later:**

Mordred knocked once on the door, then let herself in.

The stained plaster walls of a hotel room greeted her. Arthur sat in the room's only chair, watching a run-down TV that whined over the babble of a news station. Dim light, diffused by the ratty drapes, lit the room in faded pastels. Through a gap where the glow shined brighter she could see the massive electronic billboard outside that sat, in her opinion, entirely too close to their room.

 _I guess that's why the room is so cheap. Living the low life of a commoner. For what I did, I might deserve it. Maybe I could even get used to it if I lied to myself enough, although I can't say the same for Mr. Goldie._

"You could be actually useful for once, you know?" she said. Her voice was flat in the dead air.

Arthur turned the TV off. "You're not supposed to do that," he said, looking up.

"Not supposed to what?" She crossed her arms.

He narrowed his eyes. "To knock. Do you not understand secrecy?"

"Do you not understand being polite? Excuse me then."

Mordred sat down on the bed and stared at the floor, letting the silence between them grow. She resisted the urge to summon Clarent and a whetstone. Sharpening it was pointless - the sword was a conceptual archetype of her legend and never dulled, but at least it would give her hands something to do. _I'll have to treat it better. Throwing it and re-summoning it is no way to treat my Noble Phantasm._

She noticed that Arthur was looking at her like he had a question to ask.

"What?" she said.

"What would you ask of the Grail?" Arthur said, as if the stony silence between them hadn't existed. "It grants a wish to the victor's Servant as well."

 _He reminds me of Lancelot when he used to get all high-and-mighty. Appearing interested just so he can act superior._ She prepared a half-lie. _At least assholes haven't changed with the times._

"What I want is agency," she said. "Freedom. For too long I've been caged by someone or something."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, gazing at the room's single, dim light. "Ah, to slip the yoke of mortality and defy the Grail in the final, triumphant moments of the war. Freedom for a Heroic Spirit goes hand in hand with reincarnation, does it not?" His voice was smooth and languid.

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "I suppose."

"You would throw away the great plan destiny has for you?" he asked, sweeping his arms wide. "Destiny is just one big cage."

He let out a dry laugh, devoid of humor. "Absolute power. That is what the Grail offers. An artifact beyond the reach of space and time. The very fabric of this world bends to its whims and you use it on yourself? I thought you had _vision_ , Mordred. What of your country, lying burned in a forgotten age? You could save them all and atone for the war you started. Mere words and the impossible is yours."

"I think," she said, voice carefully controlled. "You're confusing me with my mother."

Arthur's eyes widened and unfocused, as if the jaws of memory had clamped shut around his mind. He looked down at his hands, then sneered and said, "Of course I am."

His words took a moment to register in her brain. "Wait, you _knew_ her?"

He looked towards the window and said, "Not personally."

"I don't think anyone knew her personally." Bitterness tinged her words and she looked down at the bed. Her fingers idly ran through the threadbare valleys of the sheets.

Arthur didn't answer, and the conversation lulled back into silence.

Mordred mentally counted down the days they had left in the apartment. Two so far, bought with Arthur's pawned gold. She didn't understand how he could have such ornate jewelry and no money, but she hadn't asked. A bullet in the foot tended to make her less talkative, and she had spent a full day in the rickety bed healing, silently watching Arthur twiddle his thumbs.

That night her dreams were filled with shadows and thick scent of gunsmoke. She had woken to the light of the billboard playing over her face, and Arthur trying to hide himself crying in the corner of the room. She had ignored it and tried to rest, but she didn't find sleep until the first rays of the sun poked through the blinds.

The snap-hiss of the TV turning on brought her back to the present. She looked up to see a news report about a failing warehouse company.

"Why are you even watching TV?" She failed to keep the growing irritation out of her voice.

"The Church."

"The Church? Is that even still around?"

"Of course. In Grail wars of the past, while each Master and Servant pair squabbled among each other, the Church would send a local priest to ensure that the war remained a secret to the masses."

"Ah, so you're looking for a cover up," she said, jabbing a finger at the TV. "I don't understand why the mages of this era care so much about secrecy. Merlin was fine."

She pushed herself off the bed and walked over to Arthur.

"Although, Merlin could annihilate a castle with a single spell. I guess modern mages have more problems, eh?"

Arthur stared at her, unfazed. "They do, yes. The mage world is still shrouded in secrecy and will be for some time. The years have only increased the severity of the predicted reaction, and traditionalism rules the Great Mage family's fear the backlash as much as they fear their fellow houses' knives in the dark."

 _He's talking like he isn't a mage again,_ she thought.

"If there isn't a mediator the mages will go at each other like starved dogs. So what? It's no concern of mine." She pointed to his Command seal. "We're in this war to win."

"Agreed," he said readily. "But if there's no mediator we have a problem."

"Well, do we?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Someone loyal to me would have sent word."

Her irritation spiked. "Someone loyal? _Sent word?_ How? You don't have a phone, you don't have an address, your magic is useless," Mordred said, glaring at him. "A nonexistent family, no support or allies, nothing prepared. You are one of the _worst_ Masters I can imagine and a total failure."

"I know."

She blinked, mouth open. "Oh?"

"My incompetence is my own fault." His voice was high and strained, like an out-of-tune guitar string.

Her face hardened. "I gave you chances and you've wasted them." Suddenly she couldn't bear to be in the same room as him. The wooden floor creaked as she walked toward the door.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I'm going to scout. Again."

Before Mordred shut the door, she thought he almost looked disappointed.

* * *

The early morning air was brisk, and London's skyscrapers refracted the rising sun into the deep shoots of its darkened streets. Mordred walked on the sidewalk, pushing frizzy hair out of her face and keeping her head down. She made a mental note to either get a hair tie or cut it short. Stopping at an intersection, she used the crosswalk and began the tedious process of replicating her nighttime route in the day's morning rush hour.

She didn't bother to look at people's faces and just barely checked her magical perceptions, instead focusing on the burning coal of resentment in her chest. Even thinking about Arthur stoked it into a white hot radiance. Archer could find the hotel room for all she cared. Arthur would have to use a Command Seal if he needed her. After all, _he_ was the Master.

She was a relic, an artifact of a nation gone so long no one knew where to even start looking. Bloodshed without a cause was meaningless, and her war for the Crown was but a line of text in a library of forgotten things. Was her life, too, meaningless? She didn't know.

She was adrift, cast away into a world of lights and concrete and magic. In her defiance, her refusal to be a plaything of circumstance, she had slipped the bonds of the law that everything and everyone answered to; the law of diminishing, the law of vanishing, the law of entropy. Time.

Yet the legend remained. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round were whispered by parents in dusk-lit rooms, and their children slept dreaming of the ideals of dead heroes. Galahad, Percival, Lancelot: all gone, their legends slowly succumbing to the rot of time.

But she was the one here in London. Mordred, the _villain_ , the _betrayer_ , the Saber of Red.

 _Maybe it's irony, maybe it's fate. I don't deserve it, but I_ will _take this second chance._

She passed an alley and doubled back, sensing a small amount of mana on the graffitied wall. Between the maze of spray-painted logos sat a message scratched out in the soft brick: 8:00AM. Several spent bullet casings lay on the ground below, forming an arrow that pointed behind her.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a coffee shop with shuttered blinds. A steady crowd of people walked past empty tables, some looking forlornly at the dark open sign in the window, then getting swept along in the current of the human river.

The wait was easy. Two hours spent leaning on the alley wall, losing herself in watching the city spin up like a set of well-oiled gears. Millions of people lived here, all blind to the secret societies and invisible wars of the Great Houses. She didn't doubt there were incidents that warranted cover-ups, that the world of the mage came close to being revealed every day, but the concept of magic was so rooted in fiction and the culture so empirical that the citizens' own perceptions bent around how they thought the world should be. By now it was simultaneously too big a truth to grasp and too big a lie to swallow, and in the age of information she didn't know how the world would react if it found out.

Her wait ended when a familiar face melted out of the dwindling crowd and sat down at one of the coffee shop's tables. Mordred smoothed down her daytime clothes, a passably nice red shirt and worn jeans, and approached him.

"I don't know what your plan is, but it won't work," she said.

Archer turned to look at her with raised eyebrows. He didn't have his hat on, showing combed black hair that barely touched his ears.

"Look who decided to show." He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "Take a load off here and talk with me. You must be tired. How's that foot treatin' you?"

She ignored the gibe. "Archer, we're in broad daylight. This is the Grail _war_ , not a Grail conversation. What could we possibly have to talk about?"

"An alliance," he said, gesturing with his arms wide.

Mordred stared at him with narrowed eyes. "An alliance," she said slowly. "How can I even _begin_ trust you?"

"Because I'm here," a voice said.

Mordred turned to see a woman standing near the table in a black coat, looking at her with dead eyes like slates of chiseled stone. Even with the smaller crowd, Mordred hadn't even noticed her approach.

The woman sat down at the second seat, brushed back her short hair, and offered a hand. "Emily Valette, Archer's Master."

Mordred looked down at the outstretched hand, and back up at Emily. Her slow movements and leisurely tone remind her of an unhurried queen at court.

"Well, how can I trust _you_?" Mordred said.

Emily smirked. "Can you ever really trust anyone?"

Mordred laughed but didn't take her hand. Emily's fingers were small and delicate, free of scars, but she could still see Command seals poking from under her cuff.

She pulled out the third chair and sat down. "Alright, I'm willing to hear you out."

"Charmed," Emily replied. "Now me and Archer just want to talk. If you or your Master feel uncomfortable or want to leave just get up and walk away. We won't stop you."

"I'm listening," Mordred said.

"I have an offer that comes with a deal. First, if you agree, we stop fighting. The only stipulation is that you help us track down something."

Mordred raised her eyebrows. "Something?"

"Yeah. It's in the sewers of the Grey Quarter. We first found out about it two days ago, after your fight with Archer," she said. "An entire block without power, and claw marks in sheets of metal, not to mention the bronze cogs everywhere."

"Magical oil," Mordred said. "In the sewers."

Emily sighed in exasperation and turned to Archer. "See? I told you she knew."

"Fine, fine," he said. "You were right this time."

"So you think it's a Servant's doing," Mordred interjected. "Like Caster."

"Yes. Well, we know it's not Caster. We can also rule out Saber and Archer, obviously, and I'm doubtful Rider is the culprit," Emily said. She pulled out a black slab of glass from her pocket, tapped it, and the screen lit up displaying the date and time.

 _Phone,_ the Grail-knot said.

"You're sure it's not Caster? I doubt that any other Servant has a creation ability for something that you're describing. I would consider them first."

Emily looked up from her phone. "Caster was an, uhh, temporary ally."

" _Temporary_?" Mordred said, voice dangerously low. "Am I a temporary ally too? If so, you've made a very foolish decision arranging this meeting."

Archer's hands stopped their incessant fiddling and he watched her with careful eyes.

Mordred looked back, suddenly feeling acutely aware of the line she was walking. If it came to a fight she could have Emily dead in a half-second, but it would come at a heavy cost: the secrecy of the war, the unwanted blood on her hands, and the bullets that Archer would put in her before he died.

Emily cleared her throat.

Breaking off her staring contest with Archer, Mordred looked back at her.

"Fuck _temporary_. It'd last the rest of the war." She leaned forward and clasped her hands together. "I'm sorry, let me clear the air. I explained badly. Caster's Master is a friend of mine, an old acquaintance of the Valette family. He's an an outsider to all this, and I might have not explained certain aspects of the war to him as well as I should've."

"Which is just peachy," Archer said.

"Yes Archer, I know." Her voice grew sharp but retained the bitter edge of sadness. "We had a falling out, but I just need to explain myself and we'll be fine. With a team of Caster, Saber and Archer taking the Grail will be easy."

"That does sound appealing," Mordred said. "But why an alliance with me? Archer and I still have unfinished business."

"While a Servant has an area of absolute expertise, they don't mesh well with others due to clashing ideals and huge gulfs in style. Saber, Archer and Caster all balance each other out nicely. If we coordinate and actually use strategy we can defeat the other four on individual fronts with relatively low risk," Emily said. "I'm the strategist and this is my offer so if you take it, you listen to my advice in battle but retain agency in all other aspects." She pulled out a pen and quickly jotted something down onto a napkin, then slid it across the table. "Call this number if you are interested."

Mordred looked at the napkin and nodded. She clasped her hands together on her lap and waited as the silence grew.

Emily and Archer shared a look.

"We're gonna leave now, nice and slow," Archer said. Then he was gone in an instant, stray mana particles dissipating in the morning air from his dematerialization.

Emily got up and pushed in her chair. "Yeah." She paused as if she had something more to say, then said, "Bye."

Just as quickly as she had arrived, Emily was gone. Mordred sat alone at the table, watching the now-empty street, and wondered if she was right to trust them. They had seemed genuine. Even if it was part of a larger trap to lure in her Master she could care less if Arthur died. He was just a source of mana to her - one that had too many opinions and too loud a mouth.

She took the note, memorizing the number on the way back to the hotel room. Arthur, even though he was a whiny pile of excuses, deserved a warning before she up and left him to win the Grail.

* * *

"Oh. Hello, Mordred," Arthur said, looking at her with those piercing, red eyes.

She had found him near the window of the room. His eyes were strangely unfocused, and he stood clenching and unclenching his fists. There was something strange in the way he moved. Tall like the buildings downtown, but as if there was a deep fissure at the base - and that it might send the structure toppling down at any moment.

"Arthur," she said. "I'm going to go now. Another Master offered an alliance and I intend to take it. You don't need to do any more work, just stay here and wait." She turned to leave.

He stood there for a moment and heaved a massive breath in, then let it out. He swallowed, then said, "Take me with you. Please. I don't care where we go. I'll do anything. I just need to get out of that room."

A step forward took her closer to him and she stopped herself from putting a hand on his shoulder. He didn't deserve that.

"Are you alright? You should lay down," she said, stopping herself from adding, _and pull yourself together you pathetic thing._

"No, no. I don't need that. I'll never need that, not ever again." He locked eyes with her. "Please, I'll do anything, just get me out."

She raised an eyebrow, outwardly unfazed by the sudden passion but reeling inside. _Where did_ this _guy come from?_

"Anything?" she said.

He was silent for a while, then said, "Anything."

"Alright, I'll let you come. But don't screw up and get yourself killed. I have enough problems already, which includes finding a pay phone in this _sprawling_ mess of a city. We're meeting her tomorrow."

Arthur nodded, then furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, why tomorrow?"

"Because today you owe me a favor. How much is a train to Glastonbury Abbey?"

* * *

"This is the place."

Arthur stood next to her, posture stiff. "Are you sure?" he said.

She nodded. "You should go."

He left her with a face blank from his usual sneer and found a spot among the many trees that dotted the side of the hill.

Mordred approached her mother's grave not as a knight or a usurper, but as a daughter.

It was quiet.

 _Site of King Arthur's tomb,_ the wooden plaque said. Worn stones encircled a bed of flowers, like the walls to a miniature Avalon.

She stood there, lost to time, and remembered the little things that she tried to forget so many years ago. The way her mother's eyes reflected the firelight of the hearth when she was deep in thought. Kay's half-smile in the heat of a debate. Tristan and Galahad's banter in the electric, pre-battle air. It all came trickling back, years of suppressed memories dammed by resentment.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Light of the fading sun played over the grave. Wind, gusting over the grassy plains, ruffled her hair. She clenched her fist, nails biting into the soft flesh of her palm.

"I'll never forgive you, but I'm... sorry. Not for what I did, but for how it ended."

Her words were slow, and as she said them a tightness in her chest began to loosen.

"I lied today," she said. "About what I wanted. I said that I needed to be free, that that is what I would ask the Grail. The truth is I don't know what I want. I just keep thinking about the things I've done."

The grave's answer was the low whisper of the wind.

Mordred smiled for a half-second. "It's funny, me getting broken up over lying, right?" She looked at the spiderweb cracks of roads that crept over the horizon, and the glass-faced buildings that rose into the clouds.

"I guess time does change things."

She left the grave behind her.

* * *

A/N: 'Sup everyone. Mostly dialogue chapter here but it had to be done. Chapter 3 will be easier and filled with more action - expect that within two weeks. As always, leave a review and tell me what you think - I'm always down to talk.  
Also, come hang out with me and a bunch of other great writers in the reddit fanfiction discord! Heres the link or you can find it on that reddit's rules page.  
/ZSCGx4j


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